


Breakfast is Ready

by onstraysod



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Desire, First Time, M/M, Morning After, Secret Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-20
Updated: 2019-11-20
Packaged: 2021-02-13 18:29:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21498565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onstraysod/pseuds/onstraysod
Summary: Edward Little feels altered by his first night of passion with Thomas Jopson. Will the captain and his fellow officers notice the changes in him?
Relationships: Thomas Jopson/Lt Edward Little
Comments: 41
Kudos: 124
Collections: The Terror Bingo (2019)





	Breakfast is Ready

**Author's Note:**

> My first fill for The Terror Bingo, for the prompt "secret relationship"

Thomas Jopson had a scar high on his right thigh. A little ribbon of dark pink skin, less than three inches in length, thinner than a man’s finger. Edward knew this because he’d pressed his mouth to it, felt the slight elevation of its line with the tip of his tongue, and liked the taste. It reminded him of a flaw in the rind of a late summer peach and he couldn’t stop licking it, eager for the sweetness just beneath.

When Eve sank her teeth into the apple, did it show on her face? Did that flood of forbidden knowledge scar her, or change her skin to match the scales of her seducer? John would know, no doubt, but Edward would never ask him; he had no need to. He bore the confirmation all over his body. Even as he walked into the great cabin that morning, Edward could feel the difference in his stride, in the set of his shoulders. All he had learned was spilling from his pores, shining in his face, and they could not fail to notice. The captain, with his sharp blue eye; Blanky with his searching gaze. Irving, ever alert to the least hint of sin.

“Good morning, captain.” 

“Edward! Have a seat. Will you take some tea? Jopson tells me breakfast should be ready in about ten minutes’ time.”

His hands were trembling, so he clenched them at his sides, giving a nod to Blanky, Hodgson, and Irving without quite meeting their eyes. Had he betrayed himself at the sound of that name? Something in his expression had given him away, Edward was sure of it. He was tightly coiled, like a new chart eager to spring free; he had been unrolled the night before, spread flat beneath firm hands that set about exploring his latitude and longitude. Surely those lines were visible to the others, lit like rivers of lava across his skin, the battle-wounds of a war he’d willingly lost.

“I hope there’s bacon,” Hodgson murmured. “Last night I dreamt of suckling pig.”

Even as he sat down at the table beside Crozier, Edward could feel them: the welts of pleasure burned into his flesh. They coiled about him, teasing with fiery tongues: mouth-shaped bruises that throbbed against the cloth of his shirt, lines and stripes and furrows where the officer had been peeled away and something new and primal brought to the surface. He could swear there were places on his skin still wet, still glistening like scattered stardust in the lamplight, still warm with the stroke of ghostly fingers.

“No leads,” Blanky was telling Crozier. “Was up in the crow’s nest with a glass for half an hour, boxed the compass, but not a fissure in sight. Bow’s up three-quarters. Rough clouds to the northwest; I’d say snow coming, and a fair bit of it.”

Hodgson had poured Edward a cup of tea when he’d taken his seat, slid it across the table with a bland, oblivious smile. But even George was not that obtuse. Edward wished he might shrink himself and dive into the amber liquid, hiding himself beneath its surface until he drowned. He touched the delicate curve of the cup’s handle with the tip of his finger, Blanky’s voice a drone at the back of his skull, and he thought of the hands that had lifted the cup from its shelf that morning, the palms that had cradled it. _And cradled him_. Shifting in his chair, Edward stole a furtive glance at Crozier. The captain was nodding along with whatever Blanky was saying and did not meet Edward’s eye. Out of shame? Out of anger? Had Edward been shouting it aloud since he’d entered the cabin, declaring it with every movement and every breath? He was sure the captain could smell it on him. He reeked of desire and its bodily consequences.

“Make sure Mr. Honey has enough spare timber in the hold to patch any holes, should the ice turn actively against us,” Crozier was telling Blanky.

“As opposed to its merely passive malevolence,” Blanky smirked.

“Precisely. Organize a work party to clear some of the bigger pieces away from the hull. If it does nothing for the safety of the ship, at least it might cut down on the noise. It grinds and moans so much some nights I think I’ll never sleep.”

Blood pulsed beneath Edward’s cheeks, bright as a flare. Was this how the captain planned to rebuke him, with insinuations disguised as offhand comments: a pinch here, a stab there, goading Edward into a full confession?

_At the height of his pleasure, Jopson keened sharply between teeth clenched against the sound, half a whine, half a suppressed whimper. He panted between lips curved into a smile, a beaming, beatific expression of pure release. He’d used Edward’s Christian name for the first time, growling it out, the enunciation dissolving into a wordless, pleading cry before the second syllable could be spoken. All these things Edward knew now, and he couldn’t contain them; they pushed against his bones and the buttons of his waistcoat, threatening to tear him apart._

_“They’ll hear us.”_

_Mingled breaths having grown too loud, moans bitten off too late, they’d stilled themselves for a tense moment that seemed to last an eternity. Waves of heat had pounded against Edward’s head, a surf ready to pull him under; the need to move again was a sharp torture, a knife blade slicing through every muscle and stabbing into his brain. _

_“I can’t control myself. You feel too good.” Jopson had whispered these words into Edward’s ear, then grasped Edward’s hand, pressing the palm to his own mouth. “Keep me quiet, lieutenant.”_

_It seemed too much like violence, like coercion. In the end they’d found a compromise quite by accident, Jopson sucking on the joint of Edward’s forefinger, the edge of his teeth in one desperate moment leaving indentations in Edward’s flesh._

Beneath the table, atop his thigh, Edward stroked his thumb against the side of that finger and tried not to groan.

“I’ll be giving my last mathematics class of the season this evening,” Irving was saying. “They’ve been very well attended and most of the men have shown improvement in their figures.”

“I only wish I could say the same of my geography lessons,” Hodgson lamented. “Some of the men are still under the impression that the Volga is a tributary of the Nile.”

“As long as they can distinguish port from starboard, I’ll be content.” Crozier sipped his coffee, nodding thoughtfully. “Then again, if more men were skilled at reading maps we might avoid straying into places we were never meant to go.”

_All men had a point of no return. Even the strongest could only withstand a finite amount of provocation: bright eyes lingering, sleeves brushing, a face bending close over one’s shoulder on the pretense of duty, breath falling against one’s neck. Edward had reached this point the previous night, when the door of his cabin had slid open and Jopson had let himself inside._

_The steward had stood there for a moment without speaking, his back to the door, his lips wet from a nervous swipe of his tongue. Large, luminous eyes stared boldly into Edward’s own. “Gibson’s taken ill, sir, so the captain’s asked me to wait upon the senior officers tonight in his stead.”_

_Edward had been silent as Jopson moved around him, tensed too tightly to open his mouth. As the steward’s fingers worked the knot in his stock loose, he’d felt like a kettle on the verge of boiling over. His inner restraints were snapping, one after another, rigging ruined in a storm._

_“You’ve a loose thread on your cuff, sir.” Jopson had taken Edward’s wrist gently in his grip and pulled his arm up. “Let me snip it off before it unravels more.”_

_Edward had expected scissors, the clip of cold metal severing cloth. Not the warmth of Jopson’s breath spilling across his hand as the steward lifted it to his mouth, cutting the errant thread with his fine white teeth. “There, sir,” he’d said, discarding the thread with a flick of his fingers. “Less work for Mr. Gibson once he’s well.”_

_But Jopson hadn’t released Edward’s wrist. His thumb had brushed almost imperceptibly across the thin skin at the base of Edward’s palm, settling for a moment on the prominent vein that throbbed in rhythm with Edward’s racing heart. The steward’s eyes had widened a fraction, his lips fallen open on some unspoken question. _

_“Forgive me, Jopson.” Edward had barely been able to make the words audible. His mouth had felt simultaneously dry and much too wet._

_“For what, sir?”_

_“For my weakness. For not being a strong enough man to stop myself from this…”_

_Taking Jopson’s face in his hands, Edward had ventured into uncharted waters, the place on the margin of the map where one found either monsters or islands of bliss. Jopson had opened his lips to Edward’s mouth almost immediately, curled his fingers in the fabric of Edward’s shirt and pressed against him, letting Edward wrap him in a tight embrace. They had remained there in a daze outside of time, lost in one another’s taste._

_“Later, after the captain’s abed…” Edward had murmured the words against Jopson’s cheek, too cowardly to meet his eyes, certain that the desire flaming there would frighten the steward away._

_“Yes,” Jopson had said, “I’ll come to you.”_

_He’ll think better of it. Edward had told himself this, bracing for disappointment as he laid on his bunk, shivering even as sweat prickled along his skin. One hand had strayed down over his stomach and he pressed the heel of his palm to the budding heat, an act that had become second nature when it came to thoughts of the captain’s steward. Then Edward had fallen into a doze, for the next thing he’d been aware of was the darkness of the cabin, the lamp having been dimmed to a flicker, and the weight of Jopson’s body easing itself down upon him._

_“Thomas.” Every inch of Edward had awoken fully, instantly; he was almost painfully alert, as if his whole life until that moment had been one long nap._

_“Edward.” Jopson had tried out the name, letting it unfold slowly from his tongue._

_“You don’t have to do this,” Edward told him, even as Jopson’s hands stole beneath his shirt, stroking over his stomach. “You can leave now and I’ll never speak of this, I’ll never trouble you again.”_

_Jopson’s only response had been to smile, lean up, and begin working the buttons of his trousers free._

“Perhaps next winter we might talk Edward into teaching a class,” Hodgson was saying, a slight edge of amusement in his tone. “I think the men would enjoy that. The rudiments of sketching, maybe, or musical theory?”

“How about that, Edward?” Crozier asked, turning fully towards him for the first time. “What knowledge would you like to impart to the men?”

What knowledge. Edward was brimming with knowledge, swollen with it, his body reshaped by the effort to contain it. The way Jopson’s back arched when his nipples were teased. The constant shift of the steward’s manner: supple and yielding one moment, forceful and demanding the next. The place at the base of Jopson’s throat where Edward had sucked and nipped, making Jopson writhe beneath him, making him tug ineffectually at Edward’s hair. The size of the steward’s hands, their breadth and strength, and the way they’d strayed again and again to Edward’s prick.

_What took you so long, Jopson had asked him. I’ve been undressing you with my eyes every day since we left Stromness._

Now Edward knew. The scales had fallen from his eyes, he’d tasted the fruit, and all the secrets of existence lay open before him.

“Edward, are you all right?” The captain was speaking.

Now came the expulsion from Eden.

Edward cleared his throat, forced himself to raise his eyes and meet Crozier’s gaze. He curled his fingers against his palms, laying both hands on the table on opposite sides of his tea cup, and he took a deep, steadying breath.

“It’s the Inuit girl, sir. It’s been troubling me.”

It wasn’t a complete red herring. It seemed plausible to Edward that, having lost her father in so traumatic a manner, the girl might wish to return to her people and rouse them to some act of vengeance. Crozier clearly disagreed, but he let Edward have his say, and the more Edward talked, the more he forgot he’d only raised the subject to avoid scrutiny. He funneled his passion into his argument, having more than enough to spare. 

“The Eskimo man’s tongue was hacked off. We don’t know why; say it was punishment. If that’s how they punish one of their own, than what must they do to--"

A brisk knock at the cabin door, a voice. “Breakfast is ready.”

Thomas Jopson stood rigid just inside the door. He had addressed the captain, but his gaze fixed on Edward, eyes round and shining like those of a deer trapped in a thicket. Edward stared, and it occurred to him with a jolt of excitement and fear that perhaps he was the stag, an arrow piercing his breast, and Jopson was the hunter, surprised by how easily he’d run his prey to ground.

How lovely such a death was to contemplate. 

“You have nothing to fear, lieutenant,” Blanky was saying as they all rose in deference to the captain. “The girl’s people are far too busy staying alive to wage a war.”

He thought suddenly of his father, Simon, sitting at home back in England, comfortably placed on the retired list by now but still regretting that he’d never risen to a rank higher than purser. The first time he’d seen Edward wearing the epaulets of a lieutenant, the old man had dashed a tear from his eye.

_Lieutenant Edward Little, you stand accused of violating Article 28 of the Articles of War, to wit, engaging in the acts of sodomy and buggery with a petty officer while on duty aboard Her Majesty’s exploratory ship, Terror. Accordingly, you will suffer two dozen lashes with the cat before the ship’s company at a time of your captain’s choosing, and are recommended for court martial, in which you may forfeit your rank and all honors, and face other punishment as deemed fitting…_

The words, the image of his father: all faded into silence as Edward stood facing Jopson. Less than half a second, and yet the moment stretched into infinity, a look of acknowledgement between lovers, the space separating their bodies heavy with memory.

The captain called for his coat and Jopson hurried to fetch it. Edward fell sluggishly into step behind Irving, moving towards the wardroom.

He paused at the door and glanced over his shoulder to where Crozier was pulling a pair of gloves from the greatcoat’s pockets, Jopson standing just behind him. The steward’s eyes lifted to meet Edward’s again, and he laid his hand at the base of his throat, a gesture that might have been nothing more than an attempt to straighten his collar or scratch an itch.

But Edward knew. He knew everything now. 

He turned into the wardroom, his bitten finger throbbing in sympathy.


End file.
